


Compensation

by AcceleratedStall



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Ambiguous Alignment Courier, Gen, Goodsprings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcceleratedStall/pseuds/AcceleratedStall
Summary: The battle for Hoover Dam is days away, and the Courier has an old debt to repay.





	Compensation

They called him the luckiest son of a bitch in Nevada. For a few weeks after his miraculous recovery, the wayward package courier had been a regular sight in Goodsprings, trading gecko hides, sharing stories at the saloon with Trudy, and most memorably, leading an improvised militia against a Powder Ganger raid, with a revolver in his hand and a bandage still wrapped around his head. Then one day he was gone, and Goodsprings was quiet once more, as it had been for years. The rustling of the tumbleweed was interrupted only by the occasional itinerant trader, bringing rumors of wars and ghoul rocketeers and monsters living in Lake Mead.

That might well have been the end of it, but one breezy morning ten months later, the courier was suddenly back in town. Like most visitors, his first stop was the saloon, and Trudy was there to greet him, saying “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

He wasn’t quite the same as he was when he left; his boots were covered with dust, his jacket was patched and weather-stained, and a large rifle hung over his back on a threadbare sling. Did he have all those scars before? Trudy couldn’t remember.

“Good morning, Trudy. You been well? No more Powder Ganger raids?” asked the courier.

“Nope, it’s been quiet. Just how I like it. Can I get you anything?”

His order wasn’t much different, though. “It’s a little early in the day for the hard stuff. How about a sarsaparilla?” the courier said, sitting down at a bar stool and lowering his backpack to the floor.

“Coming right up,” Trudy answered.

The courier took a sip and asked, “Doc Mitchell in town?”

“Far as I know, yeah,” replied Trudy. “What, you need a checkup?”

He laughed. “Little late for that, I’m afraid. I’ve been beaten, stabbed, shot, bitten, stung, irradiated, burnt, vivisected, and, quite possibly, exposed to an Old World prototype chemical weapon. Still, I need to talk to him.”

She looked at him a bit skeptically. “Well, in that case I suppose I shouldn’t keep you.”

The courier downed the rest of his drink, and rose from the bar stool. “Always a pleasure, Trudy. Stay safe.” Leaving some caps on the bar, he turned for the door. Trudy watched him leave. This particular conversation with the courier had been even less informative than usual, but maybe he’d be back in the evening for a nightcap.

Doc Mitchell heard a knock on the door. Maybe someone had gotten bitten by a gecko again. Or a radscorpion sting. Provided it wasn’t to the skull, that probably wouldn’t be too big a deal.

As it transpired, his visitor had neither of those problems. On his doorstep was a patient difficult for him to forget - the courier who took two shots to the head. Trickiest surgery he’d ever done. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little proud of how it turned out.

“I- I was hoping I could borrow a moment of your time, Doc,” the courier said, with a sheepish note to his voice that Doc Mitchell didn’t expect.

“Sure. What do you need?” he answered.

“Just to talk, I suppose. Can I come in?” The courier sat on the same sofa he had when taking an ink-blot test after waking up from his surgery. He looked at the floor and furrowed his brow a little. Odd to get so reserved, all of a sudden, Doc Mitchell thought, but after a moment the courier began to speak.

“Well, I did some looking around after I left Goodsprings. Tried to find out what was so important about that package to make it worth killing over,” he began. “Turned up more than I expected. So much, in fact, that some important people got to thinking I’d be their perfect trigger puller.”

His expression seemed to darken, Doc Mitchell observed, but for the moment, the courier didn’t seem to be finished, so the doctor said nothing. “I ended up making a lot of decisions. Bigger ones than I deserved to make. Bullets, water, money, priceless technology. And, well…” He trailed off for a moment. “I’ve tried to do right by you, and by this town. Saved my life and all. But, it might not all work out. Maybe I’ll make a bad call. Maybe I’ve trusted the wrong people. Maybe I’ll get shot in the head, and it’ll take this time.” That line brought a brief smile back to the courier’s face. “So, I’ve got something to give you. Think of it like insurance. ‘Sides, I never paid you for pulling two bullets out of my skull, right? Take it.”

He reached into his jacket and retrieved a package, wrapped in brown paper. Doc Mitchell took it; it was much heavier than its small size suggested.

“Well, I have to be going now. Thanks for hearing me out. Don’t you dare open that until I’m out the door,” the courier said, getting up from the sofa. Doc Mitchell wasn’t quite sure what to say. Hell of a way to say how-do-you-do after skipping town for however many months, but the man didn’t seem to want to hear a word edgewise. He turned over the package in his hands until he heard his front door close. He tore open the paper.

What on Earth? - gold? It was, in fact. Thirty-two ounces, pure, if the stamping on it was to be believed. The courier had made a find beyond Easy Pete’s wildest fantasies. Doc Mitchell ran to the door as fast as his bad knee would carry him, and threw it open. How could he accept this? But there was no one in sight.

A week later, a passing Crimson Caravan merchant brought news of a massive battle up at Hoover Dam, and at the center of it, the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in Nevada.

**Author's Note:**

> So one of the recurring topics of discussion about this game is what to do with the Sierra Madre gold bars. One player said that they would leave one on Doc Mitchell's bedside table; I thought that was kind of wonderful, so I decided to write about it. Now the truth is I hadn't written fiction in at least a decade prior to making this, but I'd like to think I didn't screw things up completely. Do let me know what you think, though.


End file.
